Even Prophets Get Writer's Block
by RalynnFrost
Summary: Chuck the Prophet is having a hard time finding inspiration for Supernatural, so he muses about where the Winchester brothers could possibly go next in their mis-adventures. One Shot - Drabble


**Even Prophets Get Writer's Block**

* * *

Word processors were the invention of the devil. Or at least some very cruel and _incredibly_ bored demon. He was sure of it. Just the way the cursor would endlessly blink against the pure white backdrop of an untouched page was like a taunt. Every pulse of invisible words that had yet to be typed was a little stab in the gut, screaming that he really didn't have that much talent to work with. If it hadn't been for a few skull-cracking visions and some drunken thesaurus surfing he would have still been a nobody toiling away the days replacing ink cartridges at the local Kinkos for eight-fifty an hour.

Well, technically he was _still_ a nobody. It wasn't like _Supernatural_ had ever climbed the best seller lists, but the series had a pretty devout cult status and following. He had a number-one fan. That had to count for something. Even if Becky was just a little psychotic. And hopelessly in love with Sam.

He rolled his eyes again for the thought of how many countless hours he had been forced to spend listening to her mindless rambling about how Sam Winchester was the perfect man. Never mind that whole thing about chugging demon blood like he was the guest of honor at an all-night keg party to fuel his Darth Vader impersonation. Apparently things like that didn't matter when a guy resembled, what was the description she had used? Beefcake? Beefcake and a whole lot of hunk of something or other. "Good riddance," he mumbled under his breath as he rubbed the space between his eyebrows where the tension was focused. Maybe he didn't have a ridiculously tall and muscular body like Gigantuar and his "Prophet of the Lord" gig didn't amount to much when he was on the downloading end of a whole lot of nothing, but what he _did_ have was his best friend Jack Daniels and the comfort of knowing that he would never have to look at another picture of Becky's cat or deal with reading her disturbing ideas on slash fiction. A rogue shiver ran the length of his spine.

The cursor before him continued to blink away, just daring him to start commanding it to type something. _Anything_. But every word vanished from his mind leaving him as much of a blank slate as the digital page going unused. "Damn."

Chuck was the first one to admit when he was going nowhere fast so he played a few hands of solitaire in hopes of receiving some spark of divine revelation. When that didn't happen he decided to answer a few emails, pay Mistress Magda another cyber visit, and watched the wads of paper that he had used to play wastebasket-ball bounce off of the rim to roll across the floor. He picked up a couple of empty glass liquor bottles littering the area around his desk after knocking them over with a noisy clattering, scratched at his three-day-old beard and thought about shaving it, made another foray to Mistress Magda's instead, burnt himself a pot of macaroni and cheese even though he swore that he had followed the directions exactly, and then he proceeded to dance around his living room with a broomstick to the tune of Foreigner's "Hot Blooded" before remembering that he had left the curtains open. His next door neighbor was getting an eyeful of him jumping around like a madman in his boxers and dingy night robe instead of pruning her rose bushes as she had set out to do that afternoon. One timid wave and embarrassed laugh later, Chuck had wandered back into the kitchen in search of a not-entirely-filthy glass among the dishes going undone. He glanced at the clock and shrugged his shoulders, deciding that it had to be five o'clock somewhere while he poured a cool glass of whiskey.

It was a funny thing really, writer's block. There had been so many times when he had woke from some insane dream, compelled to write it all down before he could forget what he had seen. The words would flow through him almost of their own accord, and he would sit at his computer for days clacking away at the weathered keyboard like a man possessed, unable to stop. While he was drowning in the turbulent pools of description and quotation that were his own creation, all he could think about was how much he wanted it to stop. He wanted to be able to sleep and function like a normal person that didn't have their head permanently stuck in the clouds. But then when that little flare of madness would leave him, whatever it was, all he desired was to have it back for a few precious moments. He would beg and plead and swear to himself that he would never take it for granted again. Words were somewhat of a passion for him, and yet it seemed that they had a very love, hate relationship with one another.

William Stafford had once said that "There is no such thing as writer's block for writers whose standards are low enough." That may have been true enough. Perhaps when Chuck had silenced his inner critic and given up on farfetched dreams about breathing life into the next great classic that could change the world, accepting the attempts as futile and instead choosing to simply regurgitate language onto a page in a fashion that he hoped resembled a story, maybe then he had been able to make more progress. Unfortunately however, Mr. Stafford had never read _Bugs_ or _Red Sky at Morning_. If he had been subjected to that kind of bad writing surely the man would have changed his opinion. As Richard Brinsley Sheridan would have argued, "You write with ease, to show your breeding, but easy writing's curst hard reading."

"Should have done another pass," he grumbled, taking another gulp of his drink. Chuck treasured the warmth coursing down his throat to burn in the pit of his stomach. Until the whiskey collided with his blackened macaroni. The combination of the two may not have been the best decision that he had ever made and a wicked case of indigestion was sure to brew because of it. "I mean _really_," he complained to the floating fish of his computer monitor's screensaver. "The Michael sword was in a castle on top of a hill made up of forty-two dogs? What was _that_ about?"

Chuck and the Winchester brothers had been through a lot together over the years, even if they hadn't been aware of that for most of the time. He had been there for every punch, kick, practical joke, gunshot wound and possession if only figuratively. He had been there for the death of their father as well as that of Bobby Singer whom was arguably more of a paternal staple than John had been. He had been there for the opening of the hell gate, Lilith, Jo and Ellen, the exiles to hell, angels and time traveling, the horsemen and Lucifer. And even the damn Leviathans, irritating pains in the ass that they were. And that was where he was left. Where could they go from there? How were they supposed to top thanklessly saving the world from the bumps in the night? Obviously living life as civilians was out of the question. No one really left the hunter life alive. And love interests just begged to be slaughtered or caught up in the creepy somehow. No, they were doomed to just be Sam and Dean, petulantly bickering and sacrificing for one another until the bitter end. And the Prophet Cuck would be there, waiting in the wings to chronicle it all. He was a cruel, cruel, capricious god indeed.

Eventually his vision grew hazy from the alcohol, his eyes weary, and his body heavy. He couldn't resist the comfort of the couch for a stupor-induced nap that bordered on becoming comatose. Dean was there, and Sam too amidst the flashes of blinding white light that snared behind his eyelids. The voices of the angels whispered at his ear in a cacophony of excitement. One word was being repeated into infinitum as he tossed and turned. Above the hum of snores and sighs, Castiel's low rumbling baritone rang, "Father."

Chuck sat bolt upright from a dead sleep with a deep breath of shock. He wiped away the swath of drool clinging to his cheek and turned a crazed look on the hibernating computer. His fever was back in full force and the writer's block pulverized into oblivion. "I wonder how the Winchesters feel about meeting God?"

**The end.**


End file.
